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ANNALS §T A SOUL 



BY 



Beatrice Crumpton 



<3 




BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

835 Broadway, New York 



7S3^ 



v 



Copyright, 1915, 

BY 

Broadway Publishing Co. 



TRANSFER^:-!. 
•OPYRIQHT OfFlfeg 
JUN 3 an 



M 29 1915 



DEDICATION. 

To you, my friend, who loves me more 

When my book is read than you loved before, 

And to you, mine enemy, if you hate. 

For to all who read, I dedicate 

From love, or hate, I do not shrink, 

The "Annals" are offered to all who think. 

BEATRICE CRUMPTON. 



PREFACE. 

When these pages were written the writer had 
not in mind their subsequent publication. There- 
fore the reader will find no attempt at polished 
phraseology, no studied literary achievement, no 
effort as an essayist. It is in no manner a "novel" 
and there will be found no plot, nor careful building 
toward a climax. It is the record of one woman's 
life; or rather such parts of one woman's life as 
overflowed her small personality. Because of this 
overflow she turned instinctively to a diary, for to 
no friend could some delicate personalities be con- 
fided; to no individual however dear could she lay 
bear her soul. She could not intrude upon another 
her perplexities, her errors, her personal convictions. 
A diary wherein these could be recorded, where in 
black and white she could confront herself, would 
be satisfying and helpful. 

In her soft, womanish way she longed for a con- 
fidant. To the same degree, in a hard, womanly 
way did she demand a judge. 

Who could be one, or the other? She knew of 
none and so this diary has been to her the tender 
confidant, the unsparing judge. First, in her crea- 
tion of it, then in her perusal thereof. 

I 



VREF'AC E 



The earlier chapters were not written during the 
period with which they deal. This is readily per- 
ceived when the age of the child is considered, but 
are faithful records of such childish experiences as 
were strong enough to be retained in the child's 
memory through subsequent years. That they were 
retained, and with them the sensations they origi- 
nally produced, is proof o* their importance in the 
development of the child's mind. Why are they 
published? Oh! gentle reader, why do we clasp 
some pebbles round about with gold, and wear them 
on our bosoms? Why seal in golden locket a little 
wisp of hair? Why place upon the wall or cabinet 
the varied trophies of a long remembered journey? 

'Tis not because of their intrinsic worth, but that 
they speak in that unsyllabled language the heart 
alone can understand. 

There is no alphabet by which they may be cata- 
logued, no system of mathematics by which the soul 
computes their worth, but hearts will throb in sym- 
pathy and understanding, and souls clasp hands in 
common comprehension. 

So, as you frame a picture and place it on the 
wall, or deck your bosom with the pebble, bound in 
gold, I bind the records of a little life between the 
covers of a book, and crystallize Her memory. 

About it, thought waves tremble : from Her to us 
— from us to others, as we learn a little more of 
human life and longing, and thereby more of kin- 
ship with each other. 

ii 



The Annals of a Soul 



CHAPTER I. 

How very blue — how vast, the arching sky. The 
child with wide blue eyes, as blue as the sky itself 
gazes long and steadily into the azure vastness. At 
first, the sensation is all of pleasure. The blue 
coior pleases my childish fancy (for / am that wide- 
eyed child) , and I look and look till something of 
its immensity reaches my young consciousness and 
with a gasping cry I turn and clasp my hands closely 
over my face that I may shut out the big blue ocean 
of sight, that seems to drown my senses, and open 
my eyes again to smaller things. 

I resume my familiar toys, my doll tea-tables 
under the large oak tree, where the tea dishes are 
acorns from the boughs above me, and my velvet 
carpet is the lush green grass. The wind stirs the 
leaves of the trees, and again the little tea-table is 
forgotten. I stand back to look at the topmost 
quivering leaf of that mighty tree. Again the sen- 
sation of pleasure loses itself in an overwhelming 
sense of my own smallness and the vastness of the 

i 



THE "A N N "A L S OF r A S U E 

forms of nature by which I am surrounded. I stand, 
a tiny atom of humanity with tightly clenched hands 
and staring eyes drinking draughts of consciousness 
far too large and full for my young comprehension, 
till with a choking cry I fall upon my face and hide 
among the tall grasses until the feeling of awe 
somewhat spends itself. The weird notes of the 
mourning doves warn me that the summer day is 
waning and, grasping my toys, I run as fast as my 
small feet can patter into the shelter of house, com- 
panions and homely scenes. There, a normal child 
again, I am serene, calm and childish. 

This is perhaps the first strong impression made 
upon me and the sensations there experienced have 
not been, can never be, forgotten while conscious- 
ness remains. Sometimes I believe that in the next 
life, when I shall stand in awesome wonder before 
the great embodied Good, I may feel in that same 
way, and will cry out, in a kind of fear till tender 
remembered hands clasp mine, and lead me gently 
into the protecting presence of divine love. 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER II. 

Why am I, a young creature, fit only, by reason 
of my small number of years lived, for a sort of 
young animal existence, so full of restlessness, the 
restlessness of an unsatisfied mind? 

What atavism, unlooked for, unrecognized, has 
found embodiment in my small feminine personal- 
ity? for, not only am I unchildish in my thoughts, 
but also am I wary and guard well the thoughts, 
beliefs, desires, so all my own, so unchildish, so 
heretical if compared with those that have been my 
daily food since babyhood. Who could believe, see- 
ing the small, fair child, with infantile charms en- 
hanced by dainty babyish garments, with doll and 
cart trundling along the board walk that gleams, a 
golden pathway in the summer sun, that thoughts 
of why, and wherefore, and strong rebellion toward 
the forces incomprehensible, made dire confusion in 
that young child's soul? 

Yet so it was, and even then the thought, the cry, 
of that young soul was Truth! but give me Truth 
and I will ask no more. 

Then, like the vastness of the sky and trees in 
days gone by, the vastness of the mysteries enfolds 
me, and as I oft had hidden sight of sky and trees 

3 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 

in younger days, I now clasp little hands over my 
eyes endeavoring to shut out thoughts and question- 
ings and hasten into some kindly human presence. 
This mood passes, I am a child comforted, diverted, 
by homely scenes and warm companionship. It was 
almost as if some striving soul, outreaching for the 
best, had found its home in this young body, as if 
the soul, years old, had worn out one clay domicile, 
and entered the new-born body of this woman-child 
to further seek for truth. A soul made brave 
enough to risk all, if but assured of knowledge at 
the last. 

Such thoughts had lodgement in my consciousness, 
I, a little child who had not heard the word "rein- 
carnation" prattled to dolls of places, scenes and 
experiences in half belief that they were true. Never 
had I been beyond the confines of this rural home, 
yet wondrous tales I whispered of my travels in a 
far off country, where in some other form I wan- 
dered through palace halls and beauteous gardens, 
where tall vases and white sculptured forms gleamed 
coldly among the trees. Such trees and flowers as 
I had never seen in this environment. 

But this child had a dual nature, and if there was, 
as seemed to be, this atavism, all of good, of long- 
ing for the best, and holiest, there lived close by its 
side, another atavism, a barbarous impulse to do vio- 
lence. In strongest contrast to the first named 
mood, I would in earliest years revel in wanton 
rebellion against the world, assuring myself of soli- 

4 



THE A N N "A L S OF 'A SOUL 

tude, would rave and rage, summing up all reckless- 
ness in the reiterated statement that "I didn't care." 
That small, defiant statement stood for much. It 
meant rebellion, hate, defiance. It meant the pano- 
ply of indifference: The armor of an utter disre- 
gard. The bravery that is not bravery but only 
deadened sensibilities. 

Such were the warring elements within my con- 
sciousness, such thoughts were grappling with each 
other, while older persons held me on their knees or 
playmates prattled with me of our common toys and 
games. 

And all the while I guarded well my secret, real- 
izing that in this drama of life, the part of childhood 
was the part assigned to me to play. 



S 



THE 'ANNALS OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER III. 

I am twelve years old to-day! and I do not like 
myself! I am not satisfied. But I must appear to 
be satisfied. To-day my cousins came to spend the 
day and "celebrate" my birthday. So very dear of 
them to come and very kind to bring me little toy 
presents, but someway I do not care for them. How 
pretty my mother, as she smiled and kissed me 
after tying my clean apron sashes, and smoothing 
my yellow-brown hair back from my round pink 
face. I don't like my starched apron, but I must 
"live up to it." That is new (I heard it in the 
drawing-room). To "live up" to a starched apron 
and a round, pink face and yellow-brown hair, must 
be to act like a baby (as he treated me, the gentle- 
man who talked about "living up" to things). He 
saw me standing in the doorway. I had thought I 
would go in to show I was not afraid of strange 
gentlemen with big black eyes, so I went in, making 
believe inside that I was a fine lady, but as I stood I 
forgot to make believe lady and felt short, dumpy 
and pink, yes, and starched! Of all things most, I 
felt starched! At first they seemed not to know I 
was there, and I was glad (having forgotten to 
"make believe" inside), and I was turning to go 

6 



THE A N N A L S OF A SOUL 

when the tall gentleman, with the big black eyes 
held out his hands to me, and said "come and see 
me, little girl," as if I were a baby. He looked so 
good and kind that I took one step toward him, then 
the "make believe lady" part would not let me. My 
face grew warm, I knew it grew more pink and I 
was angry, so I held my head as high as possible 
and tried to hide the tremble in my voice when I re- 
plied: "You can see me from across the room, I am 
not a baby," and then I spoiled it all by acting like a 
baby for I began to cry and ran out. How I hated 
him when I heard him say, "What a strange child, 
and her eyes do not seem the eyes of a child, they 
seem the eyes of a woman." I am sorry I went in, 
I am glad to be here, alone with my dear trees. I 
love to huddle down among the shrubbery and think. 
Nothing matters much if one may think and "make 
believe." 

When I am alone I can be anything, anybody. To- 
day I was a tall, stately lady, and knew a great deal. 
I had written a large book and I could read in any 
language. I had long, slim fingers, and wore soft, 
clinging garments trailing about me. I looked ele- 
gant and "lived up to it." My pretty mother looked 
sorrowful, seeing my untidy hair and I was sorry to 
have crushed my starched apron and my starched 
sunbonnet down in the shrubbery, but I did hate 
them. The bonnet was so stiff, just "done up," and 
felt damp in the back of the neck. 



THE r A N N 'A L $ OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER IV. 

To-day is my thirteenth birthday! I have torn 
out all of the leaves in this blessed journal written 
since that horrid twelfth birthday. They didn't 
seem to be worth while. I am ever so much im- 
proved since then, I am a little taller, not quite so 
"pink" but still "dumpy." I begin to think I will al- 
ways be "dumpy," but it has been of great comfort 
to me to remember that my eyes "have the look of a 
woman's eyes." 

I have heard myself called a "strange child" and 
"precocious," and my pretty mother predicts for me 
a brilliant future. (I am not very old, but one 
learns at thirteen that mothers are partial so I don't 
let that spoil me.) 

I suppose I ought to write something very impor- 
tant, after a whole year, but what is important? 
Perhaps this! I have been trying to be good, to be 
different. It had never seemed to me that I was 
very bad, till suddenly it seemed to be me to whom 
the preacher was talking, / was the great sinner. 
It was for me the Christ had suffered and died! 
Oh, the agony of feeling oneself to be a sinner, a 
murderer! "He" suffered for me, because of me, 
my sin, the sin of not loving Him enough. My 

8 



THE 'A N N "A L S OF 'A SOUL 

sweet mother regrets that she has allowed me to 
hear this preacher, she says it is not right to deal 
with children thus, and that an emotional child 
should be protected from such disquieting things, so 
I must not carry to her this awful sense of guilt. If 
I deserve it, I alone must suffer, if I do not, how 
much greater the reason that I keep the pain from 
others. The preacher talked of "Hell." Is "Hell" 
a place? or did he mean the blackness of despair 
there is in feeling oneself a sinner ? 

Some weeks have passed since my fourteenth 
birthday and they have been too full of goings and 
comings, of books and lessons to find time to write 
in this dear old diary. Poor little me on the thir- 
teenth birthday! How I suffered in the torment- 
ing thoughts of my terrible sinfulness. But that 
feeling wore away. Perhaps the preacher was not 
very, very sure. Perhaps he didn't mean me, and 
if he did mean me I can't help it, and I shall crowd 
out such distressing thoughts. Why not think of 
beautiful things, the comforting, the entertaining, as 
we find them in books? There seems to be an end- 
less number of books. When I am tired of myself, 
of my surroundings, how perfectly easy to be some- 
one else, do other things, exist in other surroundings, 
in a book. 

I am allowed to wear my dresses "sans starch." 
I am not so "trig." I am "mussy" (so I am told), 
but I am "comfy," and — spared the torments of 

9 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 

starch, more amiable. The sunbonnet of orange 
hue, its crisp starchiness (and, oh horror, its damp- 
ness in the back of the neck), is a thing of the past. 
The "pinkness" of my round face remains, but I am 
reconciled to that and have decided that it is not so 
very objectionable after all. 

I have not outgrown my dreaming (is it dream- 
ing?) of that beautiful garden, the statues, the tall 
vases of barbaric splendor ! Sometimes I try to tell 
of them, to ask if ever in my infancy I visited this 
place, but I am curtly, albeit kindly, advised "not to 
be foolish," that "I must have dreamed it," but 
when I am a grown-up lady, rich and famous as I 
long to be, and believe I may, I shall search for that 
•spot and I will know it as my own, when I have 
found it. 

I am ambitious, my books and lessons delight me 
for they are the stepping stones to that success I 
long for. Will it come to me ? I desire love, wealth, 
fame, but mostly fame. If I knew I must be ordi- 
nary always, I would not live. 

I am fifteen years old ! Quite a young lady, with 
one trained gown (because I pleaded so). The 
despised brown hair, coiled high on my head, some- 
what contradicts the childish roundness of the face 
beneath. 

I believe in myself! I am a woman! and a wo- 
man can sway men. Through and by this power 
she can dominate nations. Fame, Love, Riches — 

10 



THE A N N A L S OF A SOUL 

the universe with all it holds is in my small round 
fist, if I am wise. Have I wisdom to use it well? 
and is it worth the price ? The price — is knowledge ! 
Will knowledge bring happiness? Again that child- 
ish gasp, confronting the immensities ! Tis like the 
wideness of the sky and the tallness of the trees 
when they so overwhelmed me as a child, but not 
so easily can they be laid aside, nor comfort be so 
readily procured by mingling with others full of 
mirth and laughter absorbed with youthful pleas- 
urings, for while they laugh and jest, aye, while / 
laugh and jest, there is the haunting thirst for truth, 
the crying out of the soul in travail, the demand of 
an unsatisfied longing. For I am not content to 
drift, to accept a half knowledge, a half solution to 
these soul questionings that swarm about my inward 
sight with the same tantalizing form of insects 
swarming about bodily eyes. 



II 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER V. 

I am sixteen years old and have achieved some 
things. I have met men and women of brilliant minds, 
and they have met with recognition the spark of 
genius in me, all my own. They have held out to 
me the blessed hand of fellowship and prophesied 
for me a brilliant future. Have made a pretty toy 
of me and passed me on from one to another with 
flattering words and promises of fame and fortune. 
Yes, I, a girl of sixteen years, have tasted the sweets 
of gratified vanity and realize in my own tiny way 
the joys of gratified ambition, after years of en- 
deavor, as shown to me by these veterans in the men- 
tal strife. 

And I have learned another lesson. I have seen 
men stripped of all their boasted strength by one 
look from my eyes, and I have felt the prowess of 
my power, when in my small hands lay the making 
or unmaking of the goal for which they long had 
labored, for they, boasted lords of creation, will toil 
and sweat, and bleed for some loved and long 
cherished plan, will plot and scheme, will sacrifice 
and slay, will near achievement, then be stripped of 
all and humbled in the dust if but some woman 
chooses so to lead them from the self-elected track. 

12 



THE A N N 'A L S OF A SOUL 

And though some one (or many) may repent, and 
curse the weakness, and revile the one (or many) 
this does not hold the others, for still remains in her 
the "eternal womanly" this power to make or mar. 

And where is "he," the Prince for whom I wait? 
And shall it be that in a time to come I will uphold 
his lofty purposes by lovelight from my eyes, and 
love-words from my lips? Use every line of femi- 
nine allurement to hold him to his best, and ne'er 
relax nor waver till he gains the topmost round of 
fame's far-reaching stair, or, will I slay the high 
ambitions of the ones who come my way, by siren 
song, and feed my vanity by counting in my net the 
floundering, foolish, ones entrapped? 

A dual nature mine indeed, when side by side are 
struggling two such natures, bound in one small per- 
sonality, 



13 



THE A N N A L S OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER VI. 

I am a wife, and I have been most honored when 
a man, an honest man, and so the "noblest work of 
God," has wished for me, and in his courtly way 
has called the honor his, when I am won. 

It was a childish face beneath the veil of tulle, a 
childish figure in the trailing robes of white. 

I find the dignity of wifehood as pleasant as a 
novel toy is to a child, and it is pleasant to be loved. 
Pleasant to receive the deference accorded to the 
"Madame" with the consideration shown a tender 
child. For such I seem to many, and one, a world- 
worn man, a transient visitor in the town who wan- 
dered in to see the bridal party, said "It was a shame 
to see the little maid who should be romping gaily 
with her mates, in bridal finery and henceforth to 
be girl no more," and when another spoke of the 
"pretty scene" he raved and said it was a sight to 
him too sad for words. And I, the girl, the child- 
wife, had my childish joy in conquest, in achieve- 
ment, in the wealth of love and kindness. 

Had my heart pangs at the parting with the past, 
and all it held. The best of my young nature sprang 
into prominence and with sincere desires for worthi- 

14 



THE A N N A L S OF A SOUL 

ness and honest purpose to do right, I took my stand 
among the sisterhood of wives. 

With the same tearless sobs, the same over- 
whelming sense of smallness in the world's great plan 
that filled my childish soul when I confronted the 
immensity of bending sky and forest trees as child, 
I now stand sore appalled at life's great problems 
and their magnitude. 

The mourning doves may sound their warning cry 
but this bewildered woman-child may not cast out 
the thoughts they rouse, and run with speedy feet 
into the midst of family and homely scenes to be a 
part of all, for she is to be never more again the 
same. 



15 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER VII. 

Chaos! The Universe does not pursue its even 
way, Impossible! The planetary system is at war 
within itself. Space illimitable is full of sounds, 
and sights, chaotic. There is no abiding place, no 
firmness for the young and untried feet. Bewilder- 
ment! Horror! Fear! And — no! Brave soul of 
youth that faces all and holds the word "regret" 
behind dumb lips, takes heart and faces all. Is 
calm within the centre of a seething mass of wreck- 
age, sees the waves recede, the planets settle into 
places each its own, and tumble onward in their 
trackless way. Old Earth resumes her even tenor 
and the Sun shines forth on this new-born creature, 
a "woman" not a "woman-child." 

Traveler, do you remember how you have stood 
on mountain tops, breathed deeply, stood your tal- 
lest height, and felt new power, greater capability, 
because of an accomplished ascent? Is not the feel- 
ing similar when new responsibilities are met and 
dealt with ? You feel a great surprise that you have 
had the strength to climb to such a height and with 
a new respect you recognize the "selfhood" that is 
yours. 'Twas thus I met my duties, cares, experi- 
ences, with firmer poise, a closer hold upon my im- 
pulses, a firmer grasp on reason and control. 



THE "A N N "A L S OF A SOUL 

No more the impulsive movement from laughter 
to tears, from tears to mirth, but tears were dried 
by forcing other thoughts into my mind to counter- 
balance all, and laughter was moderate and seemly 
lest its gladness be quenched by some perverse and 
impish mental gymnast of my brain. 

Blessed moderation! It may dampen joy, but 
also does the power of moderation hold in leash the 
impulses, save pangs of after thoughts, sometimes 
self-torturing (and yet — a "reasonable" woman, has 
she not lost something truly feminine when she re- 
members always to be reasonable?) 



17 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Does Heaven sometimes bend and touch the 
Earth? Do Angels guard? Does Hell recede, and 
every imp of darkness hide away and Satan find no 
weak, unguarded thought? If so, 'tis when the 
babes lie close and helpless in maternal arms, and 
press their soft mouths to the breast and look with 
eyes of innocence into the eyes that beam devotion 
for the helpless thing that rests serenely in the 
cradling arms. 

In the vast love of motherhood lies all abnegation, 
all lowly self-effacement, all heroism, all of all that 
is divine. The tempter finds no lodgment for his 
wiles, for Heaven and all its angels guards the wo- 
man with a child in arms. 

The children came, and after these brief periods 
of paradise, they gathered years, and with the years, 
temptations, toil, ambitions, zeal for achievement — 
and greater now than ever yet before — the mys- 
teries! The magnitude of these responsibilities 
brought back into my striving soul the helplessness, 
the smallness, of myself and my own power, and, 
like the child that screamed and closed her eyes and 
ran because the sky was vast, and trees were tall, 
and mourning doves sang weirdly, the world-worn 

18 



THE ANNALS OF "A SOUL 

woman, mutely as to lips, moaned in her soul, and 
trembled at the thought of her smallness in the 
midst of forces vast and incomprehensible when she 
would long to teach the truth. 

If Hell is pain and anguish, then in Hell I lived 
and writhed in all the torments of remorse and self- 
reproach, that I had dared to bear and nourish, rear 
to maturity, creatures possessing, perhaps, immor- 
tality, and surely, power to suffer temporal pangs. 

They had not asked for life, a gift so question- 
able. They had not been consulted, but all defence- 
less marshalled forth upon the battlefield of life, 
with but the equipment of inherited weakness. Thus, 
pleasures, pains, cares, responsibilities, joys and sor- 
rows, with always the bulwark of a protecting and 
unobtrusive presence. 



19 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER IX. 

The Influence! It came into my consciousness 
when wounded, beaten down and buffeted about by 
cruel circumstances. 'Twas like the glory of the 
morning sun upon the sea, or like the rainbow span- 
ning sea and sky. 'Twas touch of hands to hands 
outreaching in the dark, and the embrace of souls 
all spent in seeking each the other. It was a cooling 
potion held to fervid lips. It was a green oasis on 
the sandy plain of the most commonplace. 

The Influence! It lifted me above the pettiness 
of trivialities. It taught me scorn of trickeries; it 
bruised my vanity, and healed the bruise by teaching 
me the value of selfhood, and like a cherished plant 
rescued, develops into beauteous form and color, 
drinks in the sunlight and the dew, so my bruised 
soul basked in the sunlight of this love and gath- 
ered strength by wrestling with the gales of his dis- 
pleasure, while tears of sorrow when I pleased him 
not drenched every flower that bloomed in the heart- 
garden of my love and thankfulness. 



20 



THE A N N "A L S OF "A SOUL 



CHAPTER X. 

Now am I sure that the remembered gardens with 
the statues gleaming whitely among the green gloss 
of the lush foliage, the quaint and stately mansion 
with tall vases in the pillared porches somewhere 
exists, and I have seen it! Sometime, perhaps, in 
ages long ago, I wandered through its winding paths 
and loved its forms and colors with a love so strong 
that in my consciousness remains the pictured mem- 
ory, a true vision of the concrete reality. 

To him who knows and understands me and, great 
boon! has taught me how to know and understand 
myself, I wistfully related all the memories of this 
fair spot, and when he said, "Aye, dear, and I was 
there," and, in his own dear way refreshed the dim- 
ness of my memories by pictures sharply drawn by 
his far clearer mind, I knew that in the ages yet to 
come, as in the ages of the past, I must take for my 
watchword evermore the word "Advance," and as in 
ages long before "The Influence" had led me through 
the gardens fair so it would meet me in my groping 
need, would lift me when I stumbled, chide me when 
I erred and crown me with a blessed approval when 
I learn to stand more firmly for the selfhood that 
is I. 

21 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 

So I must be courageous, I must meet with brav- 
ery the cark of cares, and I must learn submission. 
Accept as part of this great education all that comes 
in all the guises worn by heartlessness. And I must 
bear the pains of travail of the soul in bringing 
forth a truth, must suffer and be strong. 



22 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



CHAPTER XL 

Must "suffer," and be "strong"? Ah, yes! but, 
greater lessen still, to learn the ways of happiness. 

How best to be and to impart a cheerful and in- 
spiring spirit, and never trail in soiling dust the ban- 
ner with the word inscribed "Advance." 

I stand upon the mountain tops of all complete- 
ness. There are no clouds above me to obscure or 
blur the blue sky of my satisfaction, for I have 
passed them in the steep ascent to reach this goal. 

"The Influence" has led me on, weeks, months, 
years, till doubt has vanished as a mist will burn out 
in the steady beams of sunlight. 

With life's great problems met and solved, no 
more the gasping cry, appalled at all the mysteries. 
I look into the eyes of kindly courage. I clasp the 
hands that hold my own in steady clasp, and I be- 
lieve! Believe! and what is my belief? That I 
am I, and but to do my best according to my light, 
to seek more light that best may bettered be, is my 
plain duty. 

"Advancement" must the watchword be in spirit- 
ual and mental strivings. 



23 



THE 'ANNALS OF r A SOUL 



EPILOGUE. 

We loved her, and we know she strived. This 
child, maid, woman, with the "dual nature." She 
"suffered" and was "strong." She found her "self- 
hood" and from her brave watchword never 
swerved. 

If there is chance for this advancement she so 
sought, then She is pressing onward. 

True to that loved "Influence" that "crushed the 
weakness from her strength" and having "bruised 
her," "healed the bruise," perhaps the ages yet to 
come hold in their undiscovered stores, for her, all 
peace and happiness, within the "beauteous gar- 
dens" "where the tall marbles gleam whitely among 
the green shrubberies" and "tall, barbaric vases 
stand upon the pillard porches." 

Because of her we crystallize her thoughts be- 
tween the covers of this book, and feel a tenderer 
compassion for every striving soul. 



FINIS. 



24 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



THE DOCTOR'S STORY 

"The country Dr.," another name for one whose 
life is dedicated to humanity, consecrated to the no- 
blest missions. The man who spares not himself, 
who has no settled hours for labor, rest, food, or 
recuperation, who lives among his people, shares 
their joy at births, and sorrow at deaths. The one 
who comes closest into the tragedies of the homes 
he blesses, nearer to the hearts than even the be- 
loved spiritual advisors. For they — anointed ones — 
meet on the plane of spirituality the soul's needs 
only. The Doctor tides his beloved over the nau- 
seous shoals of the commonplace, and infuses health- 
ful thoughts into sordid minds. 

Grey, bent, old too soon, shabby, almost unkempt, 
but with the light of Heaven still glowing on his tired 
face, for in the passing of his friend, neighbor, patient, 
the gates had stood ajar a moment while the light 
streamed through and filled his saintly face with stuff 
that halos must be made of. 

We sat together in the den where once the brother 
that we loved had worked and read and thought, 
where he had dreamed (or did he "dream"?) the expe- 
riences that by his will we now were privileged to read 
of — penned in the little book that he had called his 
"dearest friend," save us. 

25 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 

We read : and as we lived with him page after page, 
from boyhood — till the time when he must leave us, we 
loved him all the way, and shared his hope that some- 
where, and some time, he would clasp hands with that 
dear one, and bring to joyous culmination the best ful- 
fillment of his striving soul. 

The Book 

I must have had a mother — what was she? Did 
she love the small, sullen face? Did she see beauty 
(as a mother sees) in that small, square, rebellious chin, 
the blinking and short-sighted eyes, the impertinent 
nose, and the clefts in the round, firm cheeks? 

I wonder if she laughed and clasped me in her arms 
and lifted the stray lock of hair (destined to be so 
troublesome to the good Brothers who desired neat- 
ness) and kissed the spot that kept so fair, protected 
from the sun that tanned my face so dark a brown. 

Perhaps a proud and virtuous young father loved 
us both and prophesied a wondrous future for his son, 
and laughed with her, this maybe mother, at the small 
replica of his square chin, and dimpled cheeks and 
wayward lock of hair. 

Perhaps, and not perhaps — I do not know — for pious 
Brothers, with their cowls and robes — the hours of 
study and of prayer — with stipulated recreations, 
walks, and tasks. — These fill my memory casket, sealed, 
locked, and, careless of the key — doomed to be buried 

26 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 

in the past unless in some reincarnation may be felt the 
influence of these forgotten happenings. 

It was a joyous day when Brother Ambrose, on some 
mission of kind deeds, took me to help dispense his 
charities. We wandered hand in hand and joy was 
tingling in my small feet that pressed the warm brown 
earth and in my young vibrant body and in my brain, 
so young and so receptive. 

We passed a home, where from the door to gateway 
trailed a golden path. "Oh, Brother! see the angel in 
the walk !" I cried, and felt hot angry tears burn 'neath 
my lids when Brother Ambrose laughed and pulled 
me rather roughly by the hand and said : "Has it a 
halo — or white wings ? You're daft, my son, the halo's 
but a bonnet made of yellow cloth, and wings are but 
the white arms of the child you saw." 

jp. ;jc 3fc 3p sfc :p ;{; 

I dreamed (or did I dream?) that night of peril for 
the child, of dangers to be met, of thorns for those 
small feet to walk upon, and then, a vision of the angel- 
child and one not on the shining walk of that snug 
rural home, but in a beauteous garden where white 
statues, and tall vases, gleamed white and color- 
splotched among deep greens of trees and grass. 

.Jp *P *P *f* ~1* *P *F 

There has been deep darkness, torturing pains, nau- 
seous tastes and odors. Fear, with no known cause, 
and always dreams (but are they dreams?) of that 
small presence of the child, then older grown, the 

2 7 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 

maid, with soft and childish outlines, but eyes that held 
the mysteries of ages past and seek to solve the mys- 
teries to come. She beckons and I follow — back, back, 
through fire, and flood, and darkness centuries old, 
with ever the stern resolve to guard her from all harm. 
Then on — and on — through maze of webs and rocky 
paths that bruise our feet, till at the last we journey 
side by side along a pleasant road that brings us to 
the gargoyle gates that open at our coming and dis- 
close the alabaster statues, and the molten colors of 
the tall, barbaric vases among the soft lush green of 
trees and grass. 

Good Brother Ambrose sheds hot tears of pity as 
he feeds me, drop by drop, the savory broth, and says, 
"You have been very ill, dear heart, but from the por- 
tals opening for you, the prayers we offered brought 
you back to us, our small young brother, much be- 
loved." 
******* 

Have I been hard? and have I bruised the flower 
that offered me but sweetness? 

Alas ! I could not see the plant distorted, ill-shapen 
and unkempt, when kindly pruning would insure its 
symmetry and grace. How greater far a soul in tra- 
vail must be held to one high purpose, tho' it bleed. 

From gold, the crucible must melt the dross. From 
her pure gold of lofty thought must be eliminated all 
the vanity and littleness that else would choke the 
nobleness that is herself. 

28 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 

From that dear self-hood must be torn the parasites 
of all unworthy thought — and like the butterfly impris- 
oned in the cramped and viscid domicil cocoon, her 
soul must rise, a beauteous winged thing, upward and 
onward through the future years. 



THE ANNALS OF A SOUL 



EPILOGUE 

Dear doctor-friend, dear other one, you two — who 
loved me, read my book, this little book that chron- 
icles some precious moments of my life. And now, 
good-by! for I have dreamed (or have I dreamed?) 
again — and she is beckoning to me from afar. 

Some time, somewhere, and after — what ? The Gar- 
den — where long centuries ago we rambled hand in 
hand. 

We will not be surprised nor strangers — but will 
know. 



FINIS 



